Feathers and Flowers
by spoonybutts
Summary: Stories in which Manamia is what sends them moving on into the world. Everyone x Manamia. Generally platonic unless stated otherwise or seen in such a way bc freedom of opinion yay.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Last Story. Comfort me, pls.

**Warnings:** Name swaps. Zael, Calista, and Mirania will be using their Japanese names Elza, Kanan, and Manamia. When Sir Therius appears his family name will be Tasha (his original Japanese name). Likewise, General Asthar's family name will be Trista. This compilation will contain occasional AU.

**Author's notes:** My Manamia thirst is strong. Thus I imagine the whole party's (and then some) thirst for her is strong.

**Song Inspiration:** "Faraway Promise" (piano) from Xenogears

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Long before they came to Lazulis Island there was the kingdom of Corneille. Lazulis had its winding paths of wind with treasures along the gales but Corneille embraced the wind. They built up and they built out. There was no house or tavern without a balcony. There was always a kite in the sky when sunlight drenched them in warmth. At night they hung lanterns onto their strings and let loose. Stars or glowing flames it didn't matter. Every night glowed and Elza would watch through his looking glass.

It was times like these that Elza ached. His father Devon had been lost to the world when he was 5. Then the attack on his village came and Elza's life spiraled. The flames and the soldiers stole his mother Rosa away. Elza had years to move on. But he couldn't. Not when Devon used to prop Elza onto his shoulders at night when shooting stars came tumbling down. Elza would 'ooh' and 'ahh' and Devon would laugh. One day, Devon had said, Elza would be the one to pierce the heavens. The stars, the moon, and everything beyond would be Elza's. How could he forget his mother kissing him to make his pain go away? Elza was a boy who would scamper and play with sticks until he came home streaked in dirt, the skin peeling from his knees.

"My baby," Rosa cooed. The potions she used stung his skin but then she would kiss his hands, his cheeks, his forehead and all was well. Then he would laugh and help her cook in the kitchen and they would sing songs about stars and tigers.

Elza could not forget. He would never forget. The memories suffocated him and at night he could barely breathe. Whenever he returned to the inn Elza acted normally. His cheeks and his eyes felt hot but Dagran never seemed to question it or notice. Syrenne went on drinking. Lowell was gallivanting with the latest woman of the night. But Manamia stared at him long and hard until Elza finally felt uncomfortable. He did not touch his food. And Manamia, shockingly, did not ask for his. Her gaze was steady – bright blue beneath hair as black as night – and almost reproachful. It wasn't until Elza went to bed that he realized it was the same look Rosa used to give him when he was upset. And the look after was the one Rosa wore when Elza hadn't eaten his vegetables.

They traveled through Corneille for a long time. The jobs were seemingly endless – kill this, destroy that, retrieve this family heirloom, or help me get the woman or man or gender fluid binary of my dreams! Elza worked himself to the bone. When the jobs were finished he would watch the stars at night and remember how strong his father's arm were when he lifted Elza into the sky or how Rosa's hands were warm when she braided feathers into his hair. His cuts and bruises didn't heal properly. But he would stay out to stare at the clouds and twinkling lights, eat, and go to bed.

"Elza," short verbs and a drop in her pitch. Rosa was a beautiful mother and a kind mother but not a mother you'd want to get angry. Elza remembered.

But he remembered other things, too. This was not his home. His home was small but quaint. His mother embroidered the curtains with little birds and girls in pretty dresses. At home he smelled flowers and food – sometimes succulent roasted pig, greasy chicken, and sugar when his mother made cookies or cake (which was saying something considering his awful sense of smell). But that voice wasn't his mother's. This was not home. It was his spot in Corneille high on its stairways and hills. This was two trees with Elza in between, flowers growing at his feet. The looking glass was warming against his fingers and Manamia was standing beside him, arms crossed.

"Elza," this woman was not his mother, but Manamia, "You look awful. You need to eat and be merry. What's wrong?"

Elza couldn't answer. He jerked his arms – looking glass lifting feebly. There were stars and lantern lights and families in the distance hand-in-hand. "It's…really pretty."

"It is," Manamia agreed, "But it'd be lovelier without your bandages and with some of your weight back."

"My dad used to watch stars with me," Elza continued, undaunted by her thinly veiled concerns, "He gave these to me. At night we could see everything…and mum would come out with tea and some biscuits and we'd name constellations together."

For a while Manamia was silent. Then she left and left Elza alone with his memories. Rosa, Devon, and Elza – they were a family that no longer was. The numb feeling was returning and his fingers tightened on the glass.

"I don't know which kind of biscuit you like so I got all of them," the mother-who-was-not-his-mother was back. She held a pretty checkered cloth in one hand almost stuffed to pursing. In her other hand a pitcher of what Elza assumed to be tea. When Manamia made to sit he heard glass clinking against hard biscuits. She had stuffed the teacups in the pretty checkered cloth.

"Come and eat, Elza." So he did. "Which constellation is that? It looks like a pie!" he told her all the stars and all the shapes he knew and smiled when she clapped in delight, crumbs sticking to her face in the moonlight, "Wonderful! It's beautiful! But I still think it's a pie."

The tea was cool when he drank it. Jasmine tea, he thought. Rosa loved jasmine tea. All the old ladies in town seemed to love jasmine tea – here in Corneille and back in a home that was reduced to ash. Manamia sipped it like a lady and held her pinky out. Elza's pinky cramped when he imitated her. When the biscuits were demolished and the tea nothing but dregs Elza took up his looking glass again.

"Oh look at this," Manamia took his arm and pulled up his ragged sleeves, "Elza let me clean you up."

She healed him. The bruises faded, the cuts became dull pink lines limned against his flesh. Elza gulped. His words were automatic – more child than man, "It still hurts."

"Does it?"

"Yeah."

Manamia frowned at that. Elza felt her touch – warm and comforting – against his once bandaged cheek, "Can you…kiss it better?"

He wouldn't have blamed her if she recoiled and stumbled away. But Manamia blinked her eyes – brilliantly blue and warm with love and concern – then smiled. His face had taken a beating before. Her lips were warm against his cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose, and against his busted lip. A chaste touch. Elza felt warm. When Manamia wiped his tears he hugged her fiercely, looking glass dropping onto the checkered cloth and biscuit crumbs. He couldn't let go. Not when Manamia stroked his hair and patted his back. Not when Manamia was humming songs about a tiger trying to reach the moon.

"I'll be here," Manamia whispered, "Ssh. I'll be here."

When she was near Elza remembered the past.

He walked on the next day.

The next week.

The next month.

And the next years.

"Just being near you, Manamia... It makes me feel like I'm part of a real family again."

She held his hand through it all and he smiled.

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Author's note: This is completely platonic! But if you want to see it romantically you can haha. I figure after the whole 'burning village' incident Elza/Zael would harbor some issues. Manamia's motherly personality helps him fill the gap and stuff. Corneille is derived the the semi-precious gemstone of Carnelian btw!


End file.
